Dragon's Lair (7 page)

Justin was still coming to terms with the realization that his mission had been doomed from the moment that those woolsacks went up in flames. "If he was clever enough to find out that the ransom was hidden in those hay-wains, I'd think he'd be clever enough to have some sturdy wagons on hand to haul the wool away."

"Ah, but it would have been no easy task to unload the sacks and reload them in the new wagons. The woolsacks are deliberately made so heavy for that very reason, to thwart theft. And even if he could have gotten them away, what then? They'd have to be smuggled into England and then sold to traders on the alert for that very stolen wool. No, Llewelyn made a pragmatic decision to settle for what he could safely steal and took his vengeance upon Davydd with flint and tinder."

Justin saw the logic in Thomas's argument. He just did not want to admit that much of the ransom had gone up in a cloud of smoke, knowing what a blow that would be to his queen. The total ransom demanded was so huge that those sacks of fine Cistercian wool were needed, each and every one. He understood now why Chester was so critical of Davydd's part in this calamity. Thomas de Caldecott was right; there was more than enough blame to go around.

~*~

They headed into Wales on the morrow, keeping close to the Dee estuary. Although Wales was known as a mountain citadel, the coastal lands were flat. But the going was still not easy, for they had to contend with salt marches and quicksand bogs while skirting the deep, tangled woodlands that lay just to the south. They stopped for the night at Basingwerk Abbey where Thomas was well known to the hospitaller, testifying to how frequently he'd made the journey between Chester and Rhuddlan Castle. He'd soon proved himself to be an agreeable traveling companion, one who took setbacks in stride and kept complaining to a minimum and knew what lay around every bend in the road. He was a talker, so he was good company, too, keeping up a steady stream of lively conversation as the miles plodded by.

By the time they'd reached Basingwerk Abbey, Justin had learned that his new ally was thirty and three, that his elder brother held a manor of the Earl of Chester at Caldecott in Cheshire, that he'd picked up some of his Welsh from his mother, who'd been raised in Pembrokeshire, and was taught the rest by a Welsh mistress. And by the time they were within sight of Rhuddlan Castle, Justin knew that Thomas took great pleasure in hawking, gambling, hunting, gossip, Gascon wines, and women, but he took little pleasure in sea voyages, tedious church sermons, sharing beds with strangers in flea-infested inns, salted herring during Lent, roan horses, cats, and his elder brother. He had Justin laughing more often than not, and since Justin was quiet by nature, they complemented each other quite well, the one offering entertainment, the other an audience.

Rhuddlan Castle was strategically situated at the lowest crossing point of the River Clwyd, the locale of several strongholds down through the years. The present fortress had long dominated the crossing, a bulwark of English power until captured by Davydd's formidable father a quarter-century ago. It looked impressive at first glance, with a rectangular keep situated upon a sixty-foot-high mound and a large bailey defended by steep palisades and a deep, wide ditch. But as they got closer, Justin saw that all of the castle's structures were wooden, not fortified in stone, as were the principal castles of the English Crown and baronage. Compared to the great citadels of Windsor and Chester, Rhuddlan no longer looked so invincible to Justin.

They were admitted without difficulty; Thomas was well known here, too. Dismounting in the bailey, they were welcomed by the Welsh prince's steward, and a man was sent to inform Davydd of their arrival. Justin watched him scramble up the perpendicular steps cut into the mound as he asked the steward about accommodating their escort; it was an unfamiliar experience, having men at his command, but he was learning to like it.

"Let's go into the hall," Thomas suggested, tugging at Justin's arm. "Princes like to make an entrance, so this could take a while."

He switched from French to Welsh then, as he turned back to the steward, and Justin decided his boasting was justified; Thomas did indeed speak fluent Welsh. Thomas was joking with Garwyn, the steward, and Justin was pleased to find that he could follow the gist of their conversation.

As they approached the open door of the great hail, a man came striding out. He was of middle height, with flyaway reddish hair and beard, a sturdy frame, a square, sun-weathered face, and a fine I Flemish sword at his hip. The beard identified him as a Marcher lord, for the Welsh were clean-shaven with mustaches. But Justin already knew that. He came to an abrupt halt.

Thomas was greeting the man with a smile and enough deference to indicate he was of greater rank than the knight. Justin already knew that, too. He was still standing as if rooted when Thomas turned to introduce him to Lord Fitz Alan, the sheriff of Shropshire, an influential Marcher baron... and the man who had taken Justin into his service as a squire, a personal favor for his friend, the Bishop of Chester.

Chapter 4

August 1193

Rhuddlan Castle, North Wales

RECOGNITION WAS MUTUAL. FITZ ALAN'S LOOK OF surprise soon gave way to one of astonishment, for Justin was not quick enough to stop Thomas from introducing him with a flourish as "the queen's man." In other circumstances, the Marcher lord's befuddlement might have been comical, but Justin could find no humor in his present predicament. His feelings for his father were a confused welter of aggrieved, often contradictory, emotions. For all of his bravado, he did not truly want to alienate and embarrass his father with a public scandal. Now, finding himself face-to-face with the man he least wanted to see, one who was bound to realize the significance of his claim to the de Quincy name, he did not know how he could deflect Fitz Alan's curiosity or suspicions.

He was given a brief reprieve, then, when the prince's steward insisted upon ushering them out of the sun and into the great hall. Justin and Thomas and their men were soon herded inside, where they were offered mead or wine; hospitality was the Eleventh Commandment for the Welsh. Thomas was clearly at home here, exchanging jests and greetings with several of the Welshmen in the hall; almost as if reading Justin's mind, he said, "For the past year, I have acted as the earl's liaison with Lord Davydd, so I've been to Rhuddlan often enough to make a few friends and..." He grinned. "... tempt a lass or two."

Turning then to Garwyn, he slid smoothly into Welsh, telling the steward that once he was back in Chester, he'd arranged to have Masses said for poor Rhun's soul. Garwyn smiled, shook his head, and said something too quickly for Justin to follow. Thomas looked surprised, but then he smiled, too. "Rhun is the lad who was left for dead. We thought sure that he was not long for this world. But Garwyn just told me that not only is he still amongst the living, they think he is on the mend." He held up his hand before Justin could speak. "Alas, Rhun's good fortune is not ours. Garwyn says he has no memory whatsoever of the ambush."

Justin swore silently. "Is his memory gone for good?"

Thomas shrugged. "Who knows? Apparently loss of memory is not uncommon with head injuries like Rhun's."

Before Justin could respond, there was a stir at the end of the hall. Garwyn sprang to his feet, with Thomas right behind him. Justin rose, too, watching as Davydd ab Owain strode toward hem. The Earl of Chester had described Davydd as "aged." Justin was surprised, therefore, to find that the Welsh prince was nor that decrepit or doddering for a man who'd lived fifty-five winters.

Davydd's dark eyes were pouchy, his hairline was receding, and he'd long ago lost the lean, hungry look of his youth. But he was still a handsome man. His chestnut hair was only lightly salted with grey, his step had the swagger of one accustomed to wielding power, and he bore his years lightly. It was obvious, though, that the missing ransom was weighing heavily upon his mind; he looked starved for sleep and it was hard to imagine that tautly drawn mouth relaxing into a smile.

He held the queen's letter in one hand, crumpled in his fist. Coming straight to Thomas, he said abruptly, "Is this the queen's man?"

~*~

Justin was glad it was a humid, summer day. If it had been midwinter, the coldness of Davydd's welcome might have given him a bone-chill, "I do not understand why the queen has sent you to me, Master de Quincy. What I need are enough armed men to track Llewelyn ab Iorwerth to his lair and recover the stolen ransom. I do not see what you can do. What do you know about Llewelyn? About Wales? Do you even speak Welsh?"

Justin caught his breath, held it until he was sure his voice would reveal nothing of his inner fury. That brief moment gave him enough time, though, to devise a new stratagem, one born of Davydd's contempt. Rather than try to change the Welsh prince's low opinion of him, why not use it to his own advantage?

"I seek only to serve the Queen's Grace... and you, of course, my lord prince. I am deeply honored by her trust in me, and I am confident I can justify it. I grant you that I speak little Welsh, but I do not see why that would hinder my investigation. I have men with me to act as translators, after all." He'd been striving to sound ingratiating and indignant and just a bit pompous, and to judge by the disdainful expression on Davydd's face, he had succeeded.

"So be it," Davydd said coldly. "We will, of course, cooperate fully with your investigation." He was not particularly convincing, nor Justin think he'd meant to be. Almost at once, he turned away, beckoning impatiently to Thomas de Caldecott.

"I will be relying upon you, Sir Thomas," he said, "to do what must be done. God alone knows what the queen was thinking to send this green stripling. He is a nobody, not even a knight! I was a fool to put my hopes in a woman, ought to have known better. If I am to recover the ransom from that whoreson nephew of mine, I shall have to do it myself!"

This diatribe had been given in Welsh, and Justin sought to keep his expression bland, uncomprehending. He had not expected to reap benefits so soon from his professed ignorance of Welsh. He'd learned quite a lot in that angry outburst. That Davydd's dislike was not personal. That his pride was overblown and his temper easily inflamed. That he trusted Thomas, at least to some extent. And that his desire to retrieve the ransom was raw and real and desperate.

Thomas looked apologetically toward Justin. "My lord Davydd, I think you are too quick to dismiss Master de Quincy's capabilities. If Queen Eleanor has such faith in him, surely that says something about his -"

"It tells me only that the queen is in her dotage, entrusting a matter of such importance to a callow youngling like that!"

Justin wanted to hear the rest of Davydd's remarks, for he'd rarely have such an ideal opportunity to eavesdrop. But it was then that Lord Fitz Alan grasped his arm, pulling him aside. "We need it, talk," he demanded, "now!"

Justin knew Fitz Alan well enough not to argue and followed the older man out into the bailey. Squinting in the sudden blaze it white sunlight, Fitz Alan at once took the offensive. "What sort of ruse is this, Justin? What is this nonsense about your being the queen's man? And why are you now calling yourself de Quincy? Does Aubrey know about this?"

Justin sighed, feeling rather ill-used by the fates at that moment, "It is no ruse, my lord. I am the queen's man. It was her suggestion that I call myself de Quincy. And of course the bishop knows."

Fitz Alan continued to scowl, "None of this makes any sense! It is not even a year since I dismissed you from my service, and you end up at the royal court?"

"As unlikely as it sounds, my lord, that is exactly what happened. I cannot satisfy your curiosity, for the queen demands discretion from those who serve her. I do not expect you to take my word for all this, though." Reaching for the scrip at his belt, Justin drew out a tightly rolled parchment sheet. "This is a letter from the queen, attesting to my authority to act upon her behalf. I am sure you recognize her seal."

Fitz Alan's eyes locked upon that wax emblem. Snatching the letter, he began to read, occasionally throwing Justin an incredulous glance. Justin waited, thanking God for Eleanor's foresight, for realizing that he might have need of such a warrant. The letter was deliberately effusive in its praises; after handing it to him, Eleanor had commented dryly that she hoped it would not go to his head. He saw now that her embellishments had done the trick. Fitz Alan was staring at him, mouth agape.

"For the life of me, I cannot imagine how you accomplished this act of sorcery," the Marcher lord blurted out, shaking his head in disbelief, "But it is indeed clear that you do Queen Eleanor's bidding. And… and your use of the de Quincy name, that is somehow meant to advance your investigation?"

Justin wasn't surprised that Fitz Alan sounded so tentative, for that was a frail reed. But it was the best he could come up with under the circumstances. He nodded, with what he hoped was an enigmatic smile. "The queen is relying greatly upon the bishop's assistance in this matter." Adding, "As is the Earl of Chester," figuring that name-dropping couldn't hurt his cause any.

It seemed to have worked, at least for now. Fitz Alan was utterly confounded by the series of surprises that had been sprung upon him this afternoon and would need time to sort them all out. Justin did not doubt that Fitz Alan's suspicions would surface again and hoped that he could warn his father before they did. Fitz Alan's entire demeanor had changed dramatically. Justin was no longer a former squire of dubious origins. He was a trusted agent of the Crown and, possibly, the Church, and the Marcher lord treated him accordingly, sounding almost friendly as they retraced their steps toward the great hall.

They were just about there when Fitz Alan paused to acknowledge a woman walking in their direction. She was strikingly attractive, with the dark hair and eyes so common to the Welsh. Later, Justin would realize that her allure came more from her exuberance and vivacity than from physical charms. Now he was aware only of the impact she made upon his senses. Fitz Alan introduced her as one of Lady Emma's handmaidens, and Justin was quick to kiss her hand, more than willing to linger there in the sun and flirt with this bewitching young Welshwoman. Her name was Angharad, her French was quite good, and when she smiled, he was bedazzled, until he realized that she was gazing over his shoulder, that beguiling, seductive smile meant for Thomas de Caldecott.